


+ Add Friend

by Karasuno Volleygays (ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, Happy birthday Bakawaka-chan!, Minor Pet Injury, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slice of Life, Ushiwaka makes friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 12:09:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4564110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor/pseuds/Karasuno%20Volleygays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ushijima Wakatoshi makes friends with the most unexpected people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something in the Air

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't sure if I was going to do anything for today, Bakawaka's birthday, but a culmination of two anon asks from [this post](http://karasunovolleygays.tumblr.com/post/126497901978/does-anyone-else-justwant-to-read-a-dozen-fics), along with the existence of [this heart-shattering piece of art](http://karasunovolleygays.tumblr.com/post/126557929718/howleu-happy-birthday-part-1), meant that I couldn't resist.

The Japan U17 Volleyball camp changing rooms smell like they always do: leather and jockstraps. Wakatoshi can’t help but wrinkle his nose at the ambient funk because it never smells like this at Shiratorizawa. Their managers think it’s beastly, and he happens to agree.

He looks around the room, where the best and brightest volleyball players in the country are assembled for the international tournament coming up. Wakatoshi knows most of the faces from past interactions and the rest from research.

As usual, he checks the locker assignment sheet posted on the corkboard and directs himself to his allotted space. However, his allotted space has already been occupied.

“Excuse me,” Wakatoshi says, his frown not irritated so much as confused. "This is my locker.”

A head bobs up from being nearly engulfed in an enormous equipment bag, and there’s a giant grin plastered on his face. A face Wakatoshi recognizes from his own scouting of his national teammates. Name: Bokuto Koutarou, School: Fukurodani Academy, Position: Wing Spiker, Specialty: Cross-spikes.

It takes a moment for Wakatoshi to notice the streaky black and white hair, but when he does, he can’t look away. Painfully rigid points protrude from each side of his head, and Wakatoshi has to squelch the urge to flick at them with his fingernail.

Wakatoshi doesn’t realize that Bokuto is speaking until about the third ‘hello~’. Blinking away his random musings, he reiterates, “This is my assigned locker, Bokuto-san. If you don’t know which one is yours, please check the chart.”

Bokuto merely laughs, a sound which dominates the small room. “Lighten up, will ya!” He punches Wakatoshi softly on the shoulder. “I just _said_ I’m your next door neighbor, and I’ll be out of your way in a sec.”

Absently rubbing at the spot Bokuto hit, Wakatoshi frowns. He isn’t looking forward to sitting next to this loud, weird guy for two weeks, but he isn’t willing to cause discord on the team by throwing a tantrum about his locker assignment. “Thank you,” he says instead.

As promised, Bokuto’s things are, albeit precariously, shoved into his own adjacent locker, allowing Wakatoshi to sit on the bench and unpack his own gear. He neatly hangs his practice jerseys from the hooks in the back, sets his meticulously laundered athletic supporter and kneepads (both black and white, as requested, since he is required to wear them here) on the shelf above, and places his court shoes atop his neatly folded bag at the bottom.

When he’s finished and closes up his locker, Wakatoshi notices Bokuto eyeing him strangely. “You’re a neat guy, aren’t ya, Ushiwaka?”

Wakatoshi feels a momentary flash of irritation towards Oikawa for coining that particular nickname during an interview before schooling his tone and replying, “If you don’t hang them properly, they don’t dry and start to smell."

Bokuto looks at him like he’s spoken in some other language besides Japanese before bursting into loud, cloying laughter. “Don’t worry, man,” he says once his laughter subsides to a soft clatter against Wakatoshi’s nerves. “I can stink enough for both of us.”

Wakatoshi holds back a shudder before slipping back off the bench and heading towards the orientation meeting, wondering how long these next two weeks are really going to be.

 

At least Bokuto’s skills as a player don’t disappoint, even if he, as promised, delivers a particularly unholy smell courtesy of his strangely long kneepads. The stench lurking in Bokuto’s locker, however, could trump that of a dumpster fire. Whether it was the shoes, the bag, the jock, or just some lurid combination thereof, Wakatoshi didn’t know, but there is over a week left in the training camp and he doesn’t know if he’s going to survive.

As Bokuto typically takes his time and is amongst the last to leave after practice, Wakatoshi waits until most of their teammates filter out of the room before sitting on the bench next to Bokuto, who is busy texting.

“Bokuto,” Wakatoshi starts. “Your locker. It smells.”

Wakatoshi cringes inwardly at the words that tumble out of his mouth, as well as the pinched look on Bokuto’s face upon hearing them. Scratching at the nape of his neck, Bokuto’s head hangs as he mutters, “Well, um, sorry. I guess I didn’t notice.”

The hurt in Bokuto’s tone makes Wakatoshi want to run from the room and from any possible confrontation because of it. He doesn’t, though, because he is the one who started it. “I apologize. It was rude to bring it up.”

Bokuto shakes his head and throws Wakatoshi a weak smile. “Nah, it’s okay. Akaashi — he’s my setter and sort of my best friend! — is always reminding me to air out my bag and wash it more often. I guess I just, um, forget.”

There is a momentary tingle of amusement as Wakatoshi harbored and summarily dismissed the thought of either of his setters mothering him in such a fashion. However, this does not dispel the need to survive the next week next to Bokuto in relative harmony.

With a sigh, he pulls out plastic bag from his locker, full of items he had been saving for the second leg of camp, and hands it to Bokuto. “Try these.”

Bokuto looks at the strange assortment of items in the bag — two small pouches, one larger pouch, and two short blocks of wood — and quirks a brow. “What, um . . .” He sniffs the inside of the bag and hums in surprise. “These smell kinda nice.”

Wakatoshi nods. “They’re to freshen your gear.”

Tilting the bag every which way as he inspects the contents, Bokuto asks, “What do I do with them?”

This draws a slight smile from Wakatoshi. “Empty your locker.” When Bokuto complies by yanking out his bag, which is crammed full of his sweaty gear, Wakatoshi begins to understand the smell. “Take everything out.”

When Bokuto dumps the contents of the bag on the floor in a soggy heap, Wakatoshi chuckles. “Leave your bag under the bench.” After Bokuto does as he’s instructed, Wakatoshi organizes Bokuto’s locker in the same way he has his own before picking up the plastic zipper bag and opening it.

“For your shoes,” he says as he plucks out the two small pouches and puts them into Bokuto’s shoes. “For your kneepads,” he continues, indicating the wood blocks as he slides them into the leg holes. Finally, he takes the larger pouch and points at Bokuto’s disturbingly dingy-looking athletic supporter. “That goes there.” _I’m not touching that,_ Wakatoshi thinks to himself. _Not for anything._

Bokuto has no such compunctions. He admires the newly organized locker and inhales deeply. “What’s in those things, anyway?”

“The shoe inserts are baking soda, tea, and orange peel. The wood blocks are soaked in tea tree oil. The other one is baby powder and baking soda.” _I’m not saying it, either._

“Cool!” Bokuto pokes at the cotton pouch inside his left shoe. “Does your mom make you use them, or do you just buy them.”

Wakatoshi chews on his bottom lip, not sure if this is meant to be a joke. “I make them,” he says finally.

Eyes widening, Bokuto grins and throws an arm around Wakatoshi’s shoulders. “That’s awesome! I barely know how the washer works.”

There is no stopping the amused twitch at the corners of Wakatoshi’s mouth at the sight of Bokuto’s excitement. Perhaps it’s because he hasn’t talked to anyone so genuinely earnest about anything besides volleyball for a while. But despite his dismay at Bokuto’s rancid locker, Wakatoshi can’t help but admire his fellow spiker’s enthusiasm.

Slipping out of the awkward embrace that Wakatoshi feels has lasted a moment or five longer than necessary, he nods towards Bokuto. “See you tomorrow.”

As he opens the door, Bokuto calls, “Wait!” He fruitlessly tries to brush the many wrinkles out of his street clothes. “I noticed an ice cream place on the way in. You wanna go get some?”

“I don’t eat dairy,” Wakatoshi says curtly, a split second before realizing his tone might have been somewhat rude.

Bokuto laughs loudly. “Dude, your name literally means ‘cow’. How do you not eat dairy?”

“I’m allergic.”

His mouth in an O, Bokuto nods solemnly. “It’s a bitter fate, my friend.” He strides across the room and claps Wakatoshi on the shoulder. “I heard people are lactose intolerant because humans aren’t meant to drink milk past infancy. Evolution or something. Whatever.” He nudges his elbow into Wakatoshi’s rips with more force than the latter feels is necessary. “But don’t worry, man. Most places have soy milk ice cream in stock, and if not, there’s usually other stuff.”

Wakatoshi blinks at Bokuto, curious as to whether this strange boy is trying to curry his favor or if he is legitimately this gregarious. He had planned on running a few miles before and after dinner and doing some weight training, but the almost puppy-like expression on Bokuto’s face affects him in ways he can’t begin to understand.

With a grunt, he says, “Fine,” as he follows an excited Bokuto down the street and absorbs the other’s waves of chatter about anything and everything. Some of it in lurid detail.

The place does, indeed, carry soy ice cream, and as he examines his green tea cone, Wakatoshi can’t help but think this has been nice. Bokuto is louder than he likes, but honesty and guilelessness oozes out of his strange new companion and Wakatoshi can’t help but find it refreshing. Not as refreshing as that first chilly drag of his tongue on his ice cream, but it’s a start.

 

At the end of camp, Wakatoshi has three things: a spot on the national team starting roster, an affinity for green tea soy ice cream, and a Facebook account. One of those things he has earned on his own, but the other two are largely due to the efforts of one Bokuto Koutarou, who has taken it upon himself to be Wakatoshi’s first Facebook friend, first message, and first person to mention him.

And, he thinks as he reads his first wall post from Bokuto for the fifth time, he might have a fourth thing from all of this: a new friend.

Wakatoshi doesn’t think he minds this side effect much at all.


	2. Walk in the Park

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ushijima and his dog encounter an unusual set of running companions at the dog park.

It’s a brisk October morning as Ushijima jogs around the rubberized track circling the dog park, his faithful golden retriever happily trotting alongside him. It’s well before dawn and the air is getting too cool for Yoiinu’s aging joints at this time of year, but it’s hard to leave his first best friend behind for his morning run when he’s met at the door with a leash and a hopeful gaze.

So they run. Every morning, twenty laps around the quarter mile track. Well, Ushijima runs that many; Yoiinu tends to sit out half of them in favor of digging around in the sand pit next to the third turn in the track.

His favorite part about his morning excursion is that he is always alone, with nothing but the gentle hiss of wind through abandoned streets to drown out the gentle crunch of his feet hitting the track or the paws slapping down beside him.

He never expects the tinny sound of headphones playing at crippling volumes and their owner breezing by him.

Ushijima stops running to observe this newcomer, who keeps a quicker pace than the average jogger. The boy is close to Ushijima’s age, maybe a year or so younger, with bleach blond hair and a sneer that could curdle milk. Beside him, a huge German shepherd with a spiked collar keeps pace with its long, graceful limbs.

The owner may look insane, but the dog is beautiful.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring until the jogger completes a circuit before stopping in front of him and slides his headphones off his ears.

“What the hell you staring at, dude?” the guy asks, the clatter of loud rock music a fit companion for his rough language. He looks at Ushijima like he’s something that needs scooped out of the grass beside them.

Ushijima nearly flinches at his expression. “I’ve never seen you before. No one ever runs at this time.”

The newcomer shrugs. “It’s a free park, and I’ve got stuff to do later.”

Nodding, Ushijima replies, “It’s quiet in the morning. I can prepare for my day easier.”

With a snort, the blond guy says, “What the hell do you need to prepare for? You’re in high school, ain’t you?”

“I . . .” Ushijima frowns. “What?”

He shakes his head. “You’re Ushijima, right? The dude Oikawa won’t shut the hell up about beating?”

“Oikawa’s never beaten me,” Ushijima replies, squaring his jaw while stretching to his fullest height. He’s surprised when this stranger doesn’t seem remotely intimidated. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Kyoutani.” Seemingly done with this line of conversation, Kyoutani glances over towards the sand pit, where Yoiinu is coming over to the odd sight of his owner standing still. “Nice dog.”

“He is. His name is Yoiinu.” Ushijima nods. “So is yours.”

Kyoutani raises a brow. “You named him ‘good dog’? Really?”

Ushijima huffs. “I was six at the time. I can hardly change it now.” He glances down at Kyoutani’s German shepherd, who is looking eagerly back and forth between her master and Ushijima, and asks, “What is his name?”

“ _Her_ name is Denka.” Kyoutani crosses his arms. “We done? I’ve gotta go before my dad flips his shit at the fish monger again.”

With that, Kyoutani leaves while Ushijima is trying to decipher his final comment. With a harrumph, he keeps on running while Yoiinu falls in step next to him.

“You _are_ a good dog,” reaffirms quietly, and Yoiinu’s ears perk up.

 

Kyoutani is there the next day, and the day after that and several more to follow. Not every day, but a lot of them. It’s December now, and Yoiinu’s walks are confined to the warmer parts of the day. However, Ushijima is perfectly happy to do his twenty circuits at five in the morning while the rest of the town is barely stirring from its slumber.

Denka, however, seems to not mind the cold at all and joyfully clambers after Kyoutani. They’ve spoken a few times since their first meeting, but mostly about pet care tips and when it’s supposed to snow. They don’t talk about volleyball, and Ushijima doesn’t mind at all. It might have something to do with the fact that his entire life has been saturated with volleyball since he was twelve and it’s nice to change it up, or maybe because Kyoutani is rough around the edges and he doesn’t care to step into any sort of conflict with him.

Not that he would lose, Ushijima thinks with a smirk as he watches Kyoutani and Denka take to the track after his own tenth lap. They shared the course in harmony until Ushijima heard a yelp and muffled profanity.

Stopping in his tracks, he sees Kyoutani drop to his knees in the grass beside the track as Denka lies on her side, whining. Paying no attention to the soggy grass or the sand sticking to his shoes, Ushijima sprints across the park to where Kyoutani and Denka are.

As he approaches, Kyoutani holds out a hand indicating for him to stop. “Broken glass.”

Ushijima stops mid-stride, seeing the shattered bottle smeared with blood he assumes belongs to Kyoutani’s dog. Anger boils in his gut, and he clenches his fists as he grinds his teeth. How _dare_ someone defile a space where pets and their owners are meant to play safely?

Like a man on a mission, Ushijima skirts around the glass and drops to his knees on Denka’s other side. He sheds his jacket, exposing the long-sleeved tee underneath a Shiratorizawa VBC polo. He wrenches off the polo and hands it to Kyoutani. “Get the wound clean.”

As Kyoutani curtly nods and proceeds, Ushijima slowly strokes the fur where her neck meets the shoulder. The spikes of the collar scrape at the skin of his hand, but he doesn’t mind. The smooth, rhythmic strokes keep Denka still until Kyoutani finishes cleaning the wound and wrapping it with a torn-off sleeve.

Meeting Kyoutani’s eyes, Ushijima said, “There’s an animal hospital a couple of blocks from here. I’ll help you carry her.”

“I can do it myself,” Kyoutani hisses, his voice a half octave higher than usual.

However, Ushijima ignores this and tags along anyway. It takes about a half block before Kyoutani’s grip on his very large dog begins to flag. “Here,” Ushijima offers. “Let me.”

Kyoutani looks at Ushijima like he’s never seen him before, but he shifts Denka’s weight to Ushijima. Daily lifting has given Ushijima significant upper body strength, but even he is surprised that Kyoutani could get this far before stopping.

After almost a mile, Ushijima’s arms burn with the strain, but he grits his teeth and keeps moving. Every time the dog in his arm whines, he thinks of Yoiinu and how he would feel if his own pet were in this sort of trouble.

“Here, let me,” Kyoutani says when they’re near the destination, holding out his arms. “You’re gonna be late for practice, and I can make it from here.”

Ushijima hands off the dog, but he shakes his head. “Not until I know she’ll be all right.”

Their eyes meet, and Ushijima is sure they come to some sort of understanding. When they arrive at the animal hospital, Ushijima fills out as much of the paperwork he can while Kyoutani is ushered to the back with Denka. He’s surprised to find that, when he is finished with what he knows about Kyoutani’s pet, he is able to fill out all but three questions, mostly about her immunization status.

He pushes the paper across the counter to the guy at the desk. “This is as much as I know. Kyoutani-kun will need to finish the rest, since it’s his dog.”

The attendant nods. “This is more than fine. We can get the immunization reports from his current vet later today. Thank you for helping out with this.”

Ushijima nods. “Of course. I’ll be over here. Please let me know if there’s an update.” With that, he sits down at the long row of chairs lining the wall, his eyes fixed on the door Kyoutani had disappeared through almost a half hour before.

Twenty minutes later, a relieved-looking Kyoutani emerges, starting when he sees Ushijima. “What are you still doing here?”

“How is she?”

Slouching into the chair next to Ushijima, Kyoutani exhales heavily. “She’ll have a bandaged paw for a while, and no running until her stitches heal.” He lets out a shaky breath. “She’ll be all right, though. She’s a survivor.”

Knowing what he does about the circumstances of Denka’s rescue from a negligent owner, Ushijima agrees. Good things come from good environments, and he can tell that Denka is loved and well-cared for by her surprisingly warm-hearted owner.

“Give me your phone,” Ushijima says suddenly. He wants to kick himself for his tone, but Kyoutani has never minded before. When Kyoutani complies, Ushijima keys his contact information into the address book and hands it back. “I expect regular updates on her progress.”

Kyoutani bobs his head in affirmation before rubbing his now tired-looking face. After a long stretch of silence, he says, “Hey, man . . . thank you.”

Ushijima gives Kyoutani the vestiges of an actual smile. “Of course.” He stands and looks at the door. “Do you need me to stay, or will you both be okay?”

Shaking his head, Kyoutani replies, “Nah, we’re fine. Now get your ass to school before they throw you off the team.”

Brows drawing in derision, Ushijima replies, “I am the team.”

Kyoutani snorts. “Yeah, sure you are. That’s why we’re gonna beat your asses.”

“You’re welcome to try,” Ushijima says with a genuine smile as he exits the animal hospital.

 

Three hours later, as Ushijima listens to his math teacher drone on something he’ll have to no doubt ask Semi how to do later, he feels the vibration of a text alert on his thigh where his phone sits in his pocket. Glancing to make sure the teacher is firmly entrenched in the equation on the board (she is), he pulls out the phone and checks the message.

It’s a picture of Kyoutani, his arms around Denka’s neck as he holds up her injured paw for inspection, showing off the vet tech’s clean wrap job. He smiles at his phone and keys a quick response: _Take good care of her, Kyoutani._

The response is almost instant. _Always do. Always will_.

It isn’t until he stows his phone in his pocket that he notices that the entire class is staring at him, complete with a very unamused teacher.

“Ushijima-kun, I assume your business is more important than your education.” When half the class chuckles, Ushijima’s cheeks redden as he looks at his desk. He is seldom even addressed by teachers, and never scolded.

Probably because he is a first-time offender, his teacher huffs and says, “Just keep your phone in your pocket. I’m sure she can wait until lunch.”

Ignoring the snickers from his classmates, Ushijima says, “Yes, ma’am,” with the certainty that, in Kyoutani’s care, she certainly can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yoi inu literally means 'good dog', and 'denka' means Your Majesty. These two are nerds, and so am I.


	3. Shoelaces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wakatoshi doesn't always feel dumb. Just when he's talking to Shimizu.

The doors to Sendai’s largest sporting goods store slide open in front of Wakatoshi as he strides into the shop. Two employees greet him by name; he’s been here several times.

His errand isn’t a terribly important one. He only needs a new set of waxed laces for his court shoes, as the last had a regrettable run-in with a hot car. It isn’t his mother’s fault by any means, but Wakatoshi thinks he will hesitate to ‘go ahead and get his bag later’ should she suggest it again.

Wakatoshi picks up the laces and heads to the checkout, but the only register is taken up by a flustered-looking girl around his age, holding an ICS box that looks like it’s been sitting around gathering dust for ages.

The cashier frowns as he pulls out one of the items in the box, which Wakatoshi immediately notices are volleyball uniforms. “Miss, are you sure you want these altered and not just replaced? The cost is nearly the same, and these have to be almost ten years old.”

The girl nods, her glasses sliding down her nose just a bit when she does. Wakatoshi takes in the scene with interest. “Yes, sir. Our captain loves the tradition of our school’s volleyball club, and it means a lot to him that the team wears these particular jerseys.”

Sighing, the clerk says, “It will be a stretch, but I’ll see what we can do. Please fill out this form so we can contact you once we know whether we can fill this request or not.”

“Of course,” she replies, taking the clipboard and pen from the clerk. She notices Wakatoshi behind her in line. With a blush, she steps aside and says, “Sorry, I didn’t — oh! It’s you!”

Wakatoshi thinks hard, trying to recall if he knows her or not. He usually has a keen memory of people, but he can’t place her face. And she is certainly striking enough that he thinks he would remember.

“Do I know you?” he asks finally, wanting to solve the mystery rather than dwell on it for hours.

She reddens and ducks her head. “No. Of course not. I apologize for my rudeness. I just recognize you from your picture in _Volleyball Monthly_.”

Oh. “Er, thank you.” He can feel his cheeks heating up. “Are you a player or a manager, then?”

“Manager,” she answers. “Shimizu.”

Frowning, Wakatoshi asks, “Is that your school or your name?”

Shimizu chuckles. “My name, Ushijima-san. My school is Karasuno.”

“Okay,” he replies, not sure how else to acknowledge her statement. He vaguely remembers Karasuno being a powerful competitor years ago, but that reputation is probably as old as the box of jerseys on the counter. “Pleased to meet you,” seems like the best response.

She colors again. “Likewise. I’m sorry for wasting your time. You must be very busy getting ready for the Spring High.”

“I’m always ready,” he blurts.

“Of course, you are,” she says with a toothy smile, and for a moment, he thinks he might have melted just like his old shoelaces. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

He gapes at her as she walks out the door, blinking in surprise at how stupid he had sounded.

There is a wry chuckle from the clerk, who tapes Shimizu’s work order to the box. “Good luck with that one, son.”

Wakatoshi raises a brow at the clerk. “What?”

“That girl is filling some big shoes, and she loves her team. They’re not going to be an easy one to beat down the road.”

Wakatoshi’s fists clench. “I’ll be ready.”

He pays for his laces and leaves the store, but not before the cashier adds once he’s out of earshot, “And probably single.”

 

Almost a year passes from that point, and Wakatoshi’s all but forgotten his meeting with Shimizu in the sports shop. It’s the morning of the prefectural finals, incumbent victor Shiratorizawa versus the up and coming challenger, Karasuno.

He almost doesn’t recognize her, carrying hoppers of water bottles, but he recalls a run-in with a Karasuno manager and can’t mistake the school’s name on the back of her jacket. The rest of their meeting begins to re-emerge in his memory and he finds himself calling out, “Shimizu?”

Shimizu stops short, beads of water from the bottles dribbling on the floor a little as she turns around. “Ushijima-san. It’s nice to see you again.”

Wakatoshi nods. “I see the jerseys worked out.”

Her cheeks turn pink. “You remember that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asks. “I don’t remember what I was there for, but I remember you.”

She gives a soft laugh. “Shoelaces.”

“Shoelaces,” he repeats as his mind replays the entire afternoon. It makes him smile to himself. “Of course.”

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Wakatoshi extends a hand and says, “Good luck. I hope your genius setter and your shorty are as good as they say they are. I look forward to the challenge.”

Shimizu takes his hand and shakes it with surprising firmness. “They always are.” With a slight bow, she picks her water caddies up again and heads in the opposite direction. “Until next time?”

“Until next time,” he agrees, hoping that this isn’t the last he sees of Karasuno’s soft-spoken manager.


	4. One for the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While visiting family in Saitama, Wakatoshi is stranded at the train station for an hour but does not spend that time alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one goes out to Stormageddon-chan!

The air in Saitama is warmer and carries the scent of sakura as Wakatoshi steps off the train from Sendai. It’s a little warmer than the year before, but not the hottest first week of April in the past handful of years he’s visited.

He glances around the platform, searching for a familiar face in a swarm of strangers. The smiling face that meets him on this very platform on this very week of every year in the past ten. However, it isn’t to be found in this sea of humanity.

Frowning, Wakatoshi finds a nearby bench so he can call his father and see why he hasn’t arrived, only for his phone to blare into life in his palm before he gets the chance to dial.

“Otaa-san,” he answers flatly.

“Sorry I’m late, Wakatoshi,” Sorai Takashi says, breathless as if he has been running. “I missed my connection bus because I —”

“It’s fine,” Wakatoshi replies, ignoring his own sigh of relief that he hasn’t been left behind. “I’ll be here. Do you know how long you will be?”

Takashi huffs. “Probably about an hour. I’m sorry, son. I hate to waste our time like this.”

A hint of a smile tugs at the corners of Wakatoshi’s mouth. “It’s all right. I’ll see you soon.”

Wakatoshi hangs up first and stows his phone. His suitcase at his feet, he sits back on the bench and watches the subtle flow of humanity in front of him. Parents with children, lovers with lovers, friends with friends.

His ruminations, however, are preempted by the subtle quake of the bench as a body flings itself onto the empty space next to Wakatoshi.

Sideswept blond hair hangs over bright eyes and a smirk that reminds Wakatoshi strongly of his former teammate and friend, Tendou Satori. Like Wakatoshi, this stranger is toting luggage, albeit a duffel bag with a school emblem he can’t quite make out emblazoned on the side.

“Argh,” the boy blurts as he pulls out his phone and angrily jams at the keys. “Stupid Broccoli Face is always late.”

As the guy Wakatoshi supposes is around his own age opens his bag to toss his phone back in, he notices the distinct curved stitching of a volleyball.

“So, you play volleyball.”

The guy turns and fixes Wakatoshi with a pinched look, only for his eyes to widen. “Dude, you’re that guy!”

Blinking, Wakatoshi responds hesitantly, “I am a guy, but I’m not sure who ‘that guy’ is supposed to be.”

“Ushiwaka!” He leans in to within a hair’s breadth of Wakatoshi’s face, teeth trapping his lower lip as he looks for the evidence of his assertion. “Yeah, that’s you. Bokuto doesn’t shut up about you.”

Mind immediately offering a mental image of a black and white-haired wing spiker with smelly gear and relentless cheer, Wakatoshi nods. “We are acquainted, yes.”

“Konoha,” offers the boy, extending a hand to shake. “Bokuto was on my volleyball team in high school.”

Wakatoshi takes the proffered handshake and nods. “I see. Your school was in Tokyo, right?”

Konoha nods. “Yeah, but I live here. I board at school, and I’m just coming back. A friend of mine is supposed to come pick me up, but I think I got stood up.” He looks at Wakatoshi’s suitcase and raises a brow. “What about you? You’re a little far from Miyagi, aren’t you?”

“My father lives overseas,” Wakatoshi explains. “He comes back to Japan for two weeks every year, and since this is where his family lives, he comes here and I visit during spring break.”

“Divorced, or just working abroad?”

The tone of Konoha’s voice is almost uncharacteristic of his puckish aura, and it catches Wakatoshi by surprise. “Divorced. Why?”

Shrugging, Konoha reaches into his bag and pulls out a box of matcha Pocky and hangs one from his teeth before offering one to Wakatoshi. “It’s not a bad thing, really. I think my parents send me to another prefecture for school so I don’t have to watch them going rounds over dumb shit.”

“I’m sorry,” Wakatoshi offers, taking one of the offered treats because he isn’t sure what else to do or say.

“Yeah, it is what it is.” Konoha puts the box between them on the bench and lounges back, arms sprawled over the back rest as he contemplates the blooming sakura flowers wisping from the tree shading their bench. “So, why are you still here, then?”

“My father is running late.” Wakatoshi takes another stick of Pocky, relishing the flavor and realizing it’s been years since he’s eaten them. He’ll be another forty-five minutes or so.”

“Lame,” Konoha chimes. “I’ll hang out with you if you want. You wait for your dad, and I’ll keep an eye out for Veg-head.”

“Is that a euphemism?”

Konoha laughs, which is a hoarse yet boisterous sound. “Nah. Ogano is a friend I’ve had since we were kids. His hair looks like a crown of broccoli, so we never let him forget it.”

“I see,” Wakatoshi almost-lies as he takes another Pocky, relishing the rush of flavor on his tongue as he thinks about what it would be like to grow up with someone and know them well enough to compare them to produce. He isn’t sure he would participate in such a thing either way, but the only people he has known for that length of time are his family. Family he is certain wouldn’t enjoy being equated to a vegetable.

“Aren’t you thinking a little too hard?” Konoha blurts. “You kind of remind me of that Karasuno kid. Just not as energetic or attached to a loud, redhead version of Bokuto.”

“Kageyama Tobio,” Wakatoshi supplies immediately before wondering how Konoha even knows of his former Miyagi rivals. “I do not see the resemblance.”

Shaking his head, Konoha slaps the back of his hand on Wakatoshi’s shoulder. “You’re a weird guy, Ushiwaka. What I _mean_ is that you both do that thing with your mouths when you’re thinking hard. He’s just, you know, more stupid about it.”

Wakatoshi contemplates these words, lips pursed as he wonders whether he does indeed share characteristics with Kageyama, only to hear Konoha snicker beside him.

“You’re doing it again. You don’t have to prove my point, you know.”

At that moment, someone calls out for Konoha, and from the source of the noise, Wakatoshi immediately understands the vegetable reference.

“Ogano!” Konoha shouts too closely to Wakatoshi’s ear. “Over here, you broccoli-brained asshole!”

Ogano storms over and immediately starts squabbling with Konoha over the jibe, but both of them are smiling and the words hold no venom.

When Ogano stops for breath, Konoha turns to give Wakatoshi a little wave. “Well, it’s been nice, man. You’re not what I thought you’d be, honestly. Everyone thinks you’re this grimdark volleyball prince, but you’re a total nerd.”

Wakatoshi frowns and looks down at his hands, not certain whether Konoha is joking or earnestly insulting him. He had thought they were getting on well, but he is beginning to believe he’s mistaken.

A fist collides with his shoulder. “Dude, I’m joking. You’re pretty cool, Ushiwaka.”

From inside his bag, Konoha pulls out a sharpie and picks up the Pocky box. He scribbles something on the hinged lid and hands it to Wakatoshi.

“Here. For the road.” When Wakatoshi takes it, he blinks when he realizes that Konoha’s phone number is scrawled on the box. “I hope your dad comes soon.”

He and Ogano turn to leave, but over his shoulder, Konoha calls, “If you get bored or whatever, give me a call. There’s an awesome ice cream place nearby.”

“I’m allergic to dairy,” Wakatoshi mumbles, sure he’s had this conversation before.

“I know,” Konoha says with a chortle. “As I said, Bokuto never shuts up about you. They’ve got soy ice cream, too. It’s _matcha~_.”

“I’ll remember that,” Wakatoshi replies, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth without any effort on his part. “Thank you for waiting with me, Konoha-kun.”

“Anytime, dude.”

With that, Wakatoshi is alone yet again. However, he is far from lonely as he waits out the remaining fifteen minutes it takes for his father to arrive.

“It’s good to see you again, Wakatoshi,” Takashi offers as he pulls Wakatoshi into a brisk hug he outgrew ten years before. “You’re probably hungry. Let’s go home, and I’ll order out.”

Wakatoshi seldom eats takeaway food but doesn’t mention that as they head towards a taxi. “No more buses!” Takashi cries as they climb in. “I hope you didn’t get too bored waiting for me. I’m sorry we got so mixed up.”

The last phrase feels like it carries a weight heavier than the past hour to Wakatoshi, but he doesn’t say as much as he punches the numbers on the top of the Pocky box into his phone. “I wasn’t bored. I actually met a friend there for a while, and it passed quickly.”

Takashi grins. “I’m glad. I always worry about you because your mother lets you spend so much time alone.”

Wakatoshi thinks back to his three years in high school and the motley crew that had followed along the way. He shakes his head. “I haven’t been alone for a long time.”

As the taxi trundles along through congested traffic, Wakatoshi munches his way through the rest of the box of Pocky as Takashi talks about his job as a recruiter for a university volleyball team in America.

Dutifully, he answers all questions directed towards him, but here and there, his forefinger will dart out and trace the nearly illegible numbers on the box, and Wakatoshi muses that he isn’t upset at all that his father was late.

In fact, it might just be the opposite entirely.


	5. All the Way Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was picked by my livestream buddies! *waves*

The pavement is finally starting to catch onto the warmth of spring as it flies beneath Wakatoshi’s feet. Every day, he runs the same clip of city blocks before bedtime, and every day, he finishes them just a little faster. He used to bring Yoiinu on these runs, but the dog’s advanced years and failing joints are too fragile for the blistering pace Wakatoshi enjoys on these rounds.

And this is _his_ time. No wondering how far behind the rest of the team is during road work, no worrying about homework or chores or even volleyball. It’s time to clear his head of all the unnecessary junk that likes to collect there during the day so he can get the rest he believes he’s earned when he gets home.

However, a stray, unwanted through wanders into his head, and he peters to a barely-jog:

None of these things are his concern anymore. The rest of the team. Homework. Chores are a given but not necessarily a burden. All that’s left is volleyball. Just him and the professional team that had started scouting him as a third year in middle school. His entire existence is about to be enveloped in volleyball, and he thinks this might be the first time it’s hit him as reality.

Breath puffing a few stray sakura petals out of his wake, Wakatoshi shakes his head and resumes his run. It’s slower this time, with his vacation in Saitama to see his father sealing off his usual fitness routine for two weeks. That had been an odd stretch of time, with his dad begging off more and more things until Wakatoshi had resigned himself to television and trawling through his teammates’ Facebook profiles and clicking ‘Like’ on all the goofy team photos that he can’t even deny he’ll miss.

Head wrapped up in memories, Wakatoshi doesn’t even see the tiny figure in front of him as he rounds the corner until his torso bashes into something and sends both of them flying.

Wakatoshi’s hands hit the pavement, keeping his knees from slamming into the concrete, but when he turns around to see what or who he had run into, he finds that the other person had not been quite as lucky. There is a flurry of flying papers and cock-eyed book pages sprawled out over a solid three meter radius, with the centerpiece being a short blind child on her back, chest heaving as her eyes are squeezed closed.

Scrambling to his feet, Wakatoshi leans over and holds out a hand. “I am very sorry. Please, let me help you.”

A single eye hinges open, and when she sets in on his face, the girl’s other eye flies open as she screeches, “Japan!”

Blinking in confusion, Wakatoshi leaves his hand extended and casts a look around to make sure none of her things is in danger of escaping, despite the windless day. “Are you all right, miss?”

He reels back when she vaults to her feet and bows to him over and over. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Still facing the sidewalk, she squeaks, “I was thinking about something else and I wasn’t watching where I was going!”

Wakatoshi can’t help an amused huff. “That would make two of us.” Seeing that she is relatively uninjured, he moves to collect her belongings from their orderless sprawl. “It’s rather late. Should you be out this close to dark?”

She sighs. “I didn’t mean to be, but Hinata-kun and Kageyama-kun needed my help. They were walking me home, but their routes split off a block ago.”

Now _those_ are a pair of names Wakatoshi doesn’t believe he’ll ever forget. “Kageyama Tobio? Hinata Shouyou?”

Nodding as she scrapes a pile of paper into something resembling order, the girl answers, “Yes. I’m the team manager.”

Wakatoshi nearly drops the book he’s picking up as he turns to gape at this tiny child. He had thought she was, at best, ten years old. Not old enough to stand on the same court as the two people who had made Wakatoshi reevaluate everything he’s ever believed about his own brand of volleyball. And not the type to stand on the court with the new faces of Miyagi volleyball.

“I’m very sorry to run into you, Ushijima-san,” she offers as he hands her an armload of stuff, only to wander off to pick up more. He can’t even imagine how her slight frame managed to heft all of this for such a distance, and something niggles inside of him to make sure it doesn’t happen again.

“Think nothing of it . . .” He quirks a brow in her direction.

“Oh!” She raises her hands to hide her face, only to drop the items she’d already picked up. “Oh, _moe_!”

He can see her beet red face through her fingers as she groans and says finally, “Yachi. Yachi Hitoka.”

Bobbing his head in acknowledgement, Wakatoshi finishes picking up the rest of Yachi’s things and hefts them into his own grip, instead. “I’m sorry to have contributed to your distress, Yachi-san. Please, let me walk you home.”

Two fingers pry apart, and he sees a single sparkling eyeball peek through the crack. “You would — you would do that?”

“Of course.”

Yachi gapes up at him before a wobbly grin spreads across her face. “That’s very sweet, Ushijima-san. You only _look_ scary!” At that last statement, she pulls her jumper over her face, and Wakatoshi hears a muffled scream.

“Did I . . . say something wrong?” he asks, raking over his words in an effort to discern why this conversation is increasing in confusion and not the other way around.

Her head shakes inside her sweater. “No,” he hears. “I just say stupid things a second before I realize how stupid they are.”

At this, Wakatoshi can’t help but chuckle. “It seems we’re not all that different. My mother swears she raised me with manners, but my grandmother says otherwise.”

A pair of eyes poke out of the sweater, along with a hint of a nose. “But you seem nice to me.”

“Thank you, Yachi-san.” Wakatoshi stops walking, realizing that he has no idea where he’s supposed to be going to reach Yachi’s house. “Yachi-san, are we close to your home? I’m afraid I don’t know where you live.”

“Oh!” She jerks the collar of her sweater back down to her neck before looking around. “We’re almost there. Just another block.”

Wakatoshi nods, mentally chiding Karasuno’s quick strike duo for leaving their manager unattended for such a long ways at this time of night. Briefly, he even contemplates stopping by the school to let them know of their failures in their duties to their manager, but he decides against it. After all, she is a high school student, if a small one. She can be trusted to tell them on her own.

“Please make sure Kageyama and Hinata are aware of their failings as your escorts, Yachi-san,” he says gruffly, more so than he intends. “If they ever leave you alone again, please let me know. I will deal with it.”

Yachi blinks up at him, the top of her head barely clearing his elbow. “But I don’t know how to call you, Ushiwaka-san.”

Plucking one of the plethora of pens jammed into Yachi’s schoolwork, Wakatoshi finds a relatively clean sheet and scribbles his name and digits on the back. “There. Please let me know if your delinquent teammates trouble you again.”

“Thank you, Ushiwaka-san,” Yachi says quietly as she accepts the paper with her mouth hanging open. “That’s very nice of you.”

He nods, and they walk on in silence, with an occasional squeak from Yachi as her toes find the cracks in the sidewalk, or her elbow the lamp posts. After a bit of slower walking than Wakatoshi can recall doing in a long time, they stop in front of a tall apartment building.

“Well, this is my stop!” Yachi says as she holds out her hands to accept her burden once again. “Thank you again, Ushiwaka-san!”

A smile tugs at his lips. “You’re welcome, Yachi-san.” But before she walks away, he amends, “And just ‘Wakatoshi’ is fine.”

Yachi’s eyes bulge at the unexpected offer of familiarity, but she calls back, “I hope I see you again, Wakatoshi-kun!”

At the door, he watches her stare at the knob, wondering how to open it. Wakatoshi considers going over to open it for her, but is relieved of the need when a taller blonde woman rushes out of it and takes Yachi’s armload from her.

“Hitoka-chan, where have you been?”

Yachi bows, “Sorry, Mom! The boys were trying a new thing and it ran a little late, but I ran into Wakatoshi-kun —” She turns and gives Wakatoshi a wave. “— and he walked me home.”

Wakatoshi meets Yachi’s mother’s gaze, trying not to flinch when an almost predatory gaze assesses him. But she nods at him and then to her daughter to open the door.

He feels like he’s passed some sort of test he didn’t know he was taking, but Wakatoshi is glad he did. From Yachi’s front door, his own home is merely five minutes away, and as he jogs on, he hopes he will see her again under slightly better circumstances.


	6. Journey's End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone finally wants to be next to Aone on the train, and Wakatoshi misses his guys.

The crush of humanity isn’t new to Wakatoshi as he steps onto the crowded train. Elbows and shoulders bump into his as he maneuvers around the car, searching for a safe place to stand.

Two cars’ worth of ‘excuse me’s and mumbled apologies pass until he finds what he’s looking for. As if waiting for him, a clear space surrounds a tall boy around Wakatoshi’s own age as he grips the overhead bar. There is something familiar about this boy. He wonders perhaps if they share a class or two, or maybe that they had met sometime back in middle school

“Pardon the intrusion,” Wakatoshi says as he stands next to this tall, white-haired young man.

The boy nods before resuming staring into space, and Wakatoshi does the same. Nearly ten minutes pass by until Wakatoshi happens to glance down and see a colorful bit of paper ensconced in his neighbor’s grip. Upon further inspection, he notes that it’s a birthday card.

Not wishing to assume such things, Wakatoshi looks away and wonders whether this person is celebrating his birthday on the same day as Wakatoshi, who is making the long journey from his college campus to his old high school to spend the afternoon with his former teammates and friends.

These musings, however, are derailed by a sudden jolt of forward momentum as the train grinds to a staggering halt. Looking around in confusion along with the rest of the passengers, Wakatoshi’s curiosity is assuaged by a calm voice on the intercom overhead.

“Due to a traffic accident ahead blocking the line, we will be experiencing a fifteen to twenty minute delay for our arrival at our next stop. Please accept our apologies for any inconvenience.”

Grumbles of irritation flit throughout the car, but the sound Wakatoshi notices the most is the long, tired sigh next to him. At last, with nothing better to do than to look forward to moving again, Wakatoshi asks, “Are you missing something important?”

Responding with a curt nod, a large hand curls more tightly over the cheery birthday card as he holds it up and looks at it for a long while. With a guttural sound in his throat, he hands it to Wakatoshi.

Curious, Wakatoshi takes the card and thumbs it open. Next to the generic well-wishes printed inside is a long, scrawled letter that is crammed more than written in the card’s interior. It’s barely readable — much different than Wakatoshi’s own exacting penmanship — but it doesn’t take long to identify the sentiment inside the card.

_Dear Aone-san —_

Wakatoshi is almost sure now that he recognizes the name, and he’s fairly certain it’s related to volleyball. He lets that thought stew as he continues to read.

_Happy birthday! You’re a year older, and pretty soon you’ll even be as old as people think you are. I don’t know why they think that, since you’re only scary-looking because you’re tall. And they eyebrow thing too, probably, but still. Don’t get it._

_We did great in the Interhigh tournament. Bakayama still complains about my defense, but I had three kill blocks and a bunch of one-touches. I’m no Iron Wall, but I won’t stop working hard._

_I’m sorry we didn’t get to play each other this year. I watched the game against Shiratorizawa, and you guys played hard. I hope you and Futakuchi-san know that, even though it sucks to lose._

_Anyway, I just wanted you to know I miss you and hope to see you at the Spring High tournament. Maybe we’ll face each other once more before you retire. Also, Natsu says hello._

_Your friend always,_

_Hinata Shouyou_

Wakatoshi’s brows raise at the signature at the bottom. “You know Hinata Shouyou?”

Aone nods as he accepts the card Wakatoshi holds out in return. “Yes. He’s a good kid.”

Wakatoshi thinks back to his own relations with the small, brash Hinata, and it draws a hint of a smile. “He works very hard. It’s admirable.”

Nodding again, Aone drops his grip on the bar above them and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out his wallet, rifling through it until he draws out a snapshot of Hinata and a tiny clone of himself in pigtails. “Natsu.”

The little girl grinning at the camera has the same life to her eyes as Hinata’s, but rather than explain Aone’s unlikely friendship, Wakatoshi finds himself more confused by it. “How did you make friends with Hinata-kun?”

The change is immediate when Aone smiles at the question. “He works hard and respects others. And he will sit next to me on the train.”

Trying to puzzle out what difference that is supposed to make, Wakatoshi chalks it up to a reference he doesn’t entirely understand and merely bobs his chin in acceptance. After all, he is unable to fully explain his own friendship with Tendou Satori, who is his complete opposite in almost every way.

“Are you going anywhere for your birthday, Aone-san?” Wakatoshi asks instead, wondering what the train’s delay is keeping his traveling companion from. “Are you visiting Hinata-kun?”

“Yes.” Aone tucks the card into his shoulder bag. “Movie night.”

Wakatoshi hums in agreement. “I believe we’re doing much the same.”

“We?”

“Today is also my birthday.” Wakatoshi opens his phone and thumbs through his photo gallery, sifting through dozens of pictures of his dog before he settles on a snapshot of his entire team from the previous year, grinning and scowling and posing as he snaps a selfie of himself with them all. “I miss them very much, so we’re going to spend the evening together.”

“Good,” Aone grunts as they both return their respective memories to their pockets. “Happy birthday, Ushijima-san.”

“And to you, Aone-san.”

A scant moment later, the voice returns to the intercom and declares, “The tracks have been cleared, and we will resume in two minutes. Please return to your seats at this time, and as always, thank you for traveling with us.”

Both Wakatoshi and Aone grab the bar above at the same time, and they wait in silence until the train lurches back into motion. The rest of the journey passes in similar fashion, until Aone departs one stop before Wakatoshi.

Through the window, he can see the crown of Hinata’s brightly colored mop of hair as he jumps to assault Aone with a hug. He can’t hear the stream of babble coming from Hinata, but Wakatoshi doesn’t miss the play of a smile on Aone’s face as his small, energetic friend drags him away from the now-departing train.

The next stop is a very familiar one, and the faces waiting there even more so.

“Wakatoshi~” Satori crows as he swans through the crowd to smack Wakatoshi on the arm. “You should call more. The kids were getting worried about you.”

Behind Satoshi, Taichi stomps over and rolls his eyes before crossing his arms. “They’re not kids, and we did _not_ worry.” His adamant frown melts a little as he turns his attention to Wakatoshi. “But we did miss you, Big Guy.”

There is a streak of purple warm-ups as Wakatoshi is clamped by strong arms from the side. “Ushijima-san!” Tsutomu cries. “We thought you’d be here twenty minutes ago.”

A familiar bad haircut sidles up to them, its owner extracting Tsutomu from his hold on Wakatoshi. “Don’t be a pest, Goshiki. And if you were paying attention, you’d know the train was delayed. They announced it three times and had it on the ticker the entire time.”

There is a soft laugh from his left, and Wakatoshi turns to see Reon chuckling into his hand. “Yeah, the kids definitely missed you.”

One by one, the rest of his teammates from the previous year pile into Wakatoshi’s field of vision, and they fight and argue and share stories like they haven’t been apart for so many months.

It’s been an interesting journey these past few months, learning and meeting new people who expand the way Wakatoshi sees the world, but they all lead to this moment. The moment in which Wakatoshi appreciates the people around him all the more. There is a warm tingle in his chest, and he knows it has nothing to do with physical distress.

This is happiness.

Not bothering to fight off his smile, Wakatoshi pulls out his phone and gestures for his old friends to gather around for a quick shot. He picks his favorite out of the few he snaps, and puts it into a text message. However, he frowns when he realizes he doesn’t know Aone’s number.

An idea bubbles to the surface. “Goshiki, do you know Hinata’s phone number?”

“Um, I have it on my phone from camp,” Tsutomu answers, sending Wakatoshi a questioning look. “What for?” he asks, even as he holds out his phone.

“For a friend.” Keying Hinata’s number, Wakatoshi sends the picture to his traveling companion for the day, along with a note of its intended recipient.

But even as he does that, an idea dawns on him about new friends and old, and all the missing faces. He opens another message, and in the recipient field, he enters a few people he has learned to appreciate on the way. While he doesn’t have Shimizu-san’s number, he thinks Bokuto-kun, Kyoutani-kun, Konoha-kun, and Yachi-san will expect to know that they are missed, indeed.

 _Wish you were here_ , he annotates before hitting Send, and with that, Wakatoshi lets himself be shuffled on towards the movie theater, where he refuses to pick a movie until Satori puts him out of his misery.

He doesn’t hear the notifications, but as he takes his phone out to silence it, a smattering of messages await him. The first is from Bokuto, who wishes him a happy birthday with a, “Dude, you’re old now!”

“Have fun, man,” Konoha replies.

“Right back atcha,” comes Kyoutani’s answer.

Wakatoshi chuckles at Yachi’s excitable reply of, “I can’t believe I forgot it was your birthday! I’m such a bad friend! Now nobody will be my friend, and I’ll have to get cats. I’m allergic to cats!”

He replies to her that there is no need to add cats to the mix before he stows his phone. Satori is leaning over his shoulder through most of the exchange, a knowing smile on his lips. “Didya make some new friends, Waka-chan?”

Glad no one else has picked up Satori’s occasional penchant for that infantile nickname, Wakatoshi nods. “I have.”

“Good.” Satori claps Wakatoshi on the shoulders. “It’s nice to know you can survive without an intervention.”

Wakatoshi harrumphs. “I do not need an intervention.”

“Nah, ya don’t.” Satori’s chin props onto Wakatoshi’s shoulder. “You’re doin’ all right.”

And that, Wakatoshi thinks, is a good way to spend a birthday. Or any day, for that matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story started on Ushiwaka's birthday, and that's where it shall end. I hope you enjoyed the story as much as I loved giving him good (even if unlikely) friendships.


End file.
